


Golden repair III

by DarkShadeless



Series: Overseer Sar [38]
Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Legends: The Old Republic
Genre: Dark Side shit, and blood sacrifices, dark side rituals, not sure if enough to warrant a tag, xD basically
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-20
Updated: 2018-07-20
Packaged: 2019-06-13 07:45:34
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,750
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15359622
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DarkShadeless/pseuds/DarkShadeless
Summary: Sar’s timeslot for the ritual site falls on a foggy morning. He takes that as a good omen.





	Golden repair III

**Author's Note:**

> So, work is kicking my ass something fierce. Finally made it to an update :D yay!

 

 

Sar’s timeslot for the ritual site falls on a foggy morning. Odessen’s wildlife is eerily quiet, but for the occasional hoot. Every now and again something will move through the thick foliage, too close for comfort. 

He takes the ambience as a good omen. It certainly does more to quell his troublemakers than he ever could. Apparently he’s less scary than a few creepy-crawlies.

Sar’ll have to work on that. Later.

Odessen, as a whole, is perfectly balanced in the Force. The presence of the Alliance hasn’t changed that, not fundamentally. In places like this one, though, the difference is noticeable.

Foreboding, _power_ , hangs over the clearing. The more Light inclined members of his audience grow jumpy, the closer they get to the ritual site. Timmns shoulders are set and tense.

Sar himself? He has to take a moment when he comes to a stop in the center of the carefully placed stone circle, to breathe in the crisp morning and the lingering scent of blood and decay. Earthy, with the faintest hint of ozone, a storm waiting to happen. Darkness.

The wave of homesickness that wells up in him clogs his throat. Maybe he should give some thought to taking that vacation after all. It’s been too long since he’s been _home_.

Odessen is where he has planted his banner, where his fealty holds him these days, but it’s not the first anchor of his heart. In the depths of meditation, when Sar takes the time to sink deep into the Force, he can feel the pulse of his homeworld even here, clear across the galaxy.

_Asimi ai ronina. Arda._

They made it theirs, so long ago, and it took them for its own in turn. With all the power that binds his blood, it calls to him.

But that’s not why Sar’s here today.

He musters the people that have come to watch. Not quite as many as he dreaded, _thank the kriffing Force._

“Alright. You lot know the drill.” He has impressed it upon them harshly enough. They can all hope they’ll listen, or he won’t be responsible for the consequences. “Half-circle and no one, and I mean _no one_ , will cross the stones, no matter what happens. _I’ve got my eye on you, Timmns_.”

Somminick’s expression settles into a stubbornly unhappy frown. With any luck the threat of setting Dark Side horrors lose on the unsuspecting populace of the base will keep him out of trouble. (Sar might have fibbed a little. Granted not _much_ but a little.)

They settle in and so does he. Years of serving as an instructor make the sensation of being watched a well-worn experience. It’s just another lesson, isn’t it? Even if the class isn’t quite his usual.

Drellik even has a notepad out, though Sar denied him a recording. Maybe if the subject were less personal he wouldn’t have.

The tea set he carefully arranges the pieces of around the smelting bowl is a relic of one of his ancestors, Shunka’Jol’Nir. In life she chose to forsake glory to teach many students. Such is the path Sar found himself upon, as well. Easy, to find one’s victory and freedom on the battlefield. Harder, for one who is as battle born as he is, to stay his hand so that it may tend to the next generation. Worthwhile but hard.

Sar's strong. That's not vanity, it's fact. He could turn the tide of many a battle, if he so chose, and his heart burns to do so. To savor his own power and glory in the death of his enemies.

But there will always be another battle. Too few think of what will come _after_ , who will take their place once they've found the challenge they can't conquer.

The day Sar decided to become an instructor on Korriban, chose to put aside a warrior's ambitions in favor of putting his time and effort to shaping the future, the tea set was given into his keeping so that Nir’s wisdom may guide him.

A great honor, then, and it still is. To see it so damaged, all but destroyed, cuts him more deeply than any sacrifice necessary to restore it could.

If he thought Timmns would understand, Yon might have sat him down to explain it.

But Jedi do not care for material things and they do not give the spirits of those who came before them their due. They don’t see the point. Maybe their forebears have forsaken them in their neglect, who knows.

Sar leaves that stone unturned and concentrates on other matters.

With perhaps a little more flair than necessary he cups his hands and breathes deep. Power kindles in his chest. When the Sith releases it on the exhale it sparks to green flames over his palms, dancing a finger’s breadth above his skin. His student’s wide eyed astonishment almost makes him smile. To be that young again.

The fire burns by his will, fed from what he gives it much like Force lightning would be. Sar floats the dancing flame gently beneath the bowl. The sigils carved into the rim gain a faint glow as they feed on more than heat.

Time for the first step.

The Sith reaches for the ritual dagger he has sharpened to a razor thin edge, blithely ignoring the way certain members of the audience grow even more tense than they already were. It’s so keen it doesn’t even hurt when he draws it across his palm. The burn comes seconds later when his blood starts to drip into the bowl.

Less than a handful, for now. More than enough.

He adds the first ingot just as the blood starts to boil.

When the electrum has melted and blended with a liquid that should rightly have incinerated before such could happen, Yon closes his eyes and casts his sense over the shards for the one that will be first. After a moment it comes to his hand, spinning in the early morning light. There’s the faintest hint of blossoming tree branches painted upon the glaze.

Yes, this will do.

 

\---

 

Hours later, when Sar has mended the four cups and the pot as well, he allows the fire to go out. He is a little tired but the task is not yet done.

Once the tools are set aside, leaving nothing but the tea set in the middle of the ritual circle he takes up the dagger again.

The cut is deeper this time. It has to be.

Where Sar’s blood drips onto the freshly repaired pottery it doesn’t slide off. It’s retained, the porcelain drinks it up, staining it an ominous, glowing red. The delicately painted branches stand out against the color, stark and black. With every drop they grow more defined.

Sar feeds it more until they start to move, swaying in the wind the painter caught so well. Only then does he sit back. Breathless silence fills the clearing. What critters may have crawled about before have long fled.

There’s a quiet hiss. Steam curls from the teapot, gains substance. It billows up in a thick cloud that slowly condenses to a silhouette. The relief of seeing proof the anchor wasn’t irreparably damaged would have taken Sar’s legs out from under him if he hadn’t already been kneeling.

The spirit of his great-great-grandmother floats above her pot, radiant as ever. She is as delicate as the flowers they drew for her, forever caught in the breeze that she was named for. Shunka’Jol’Nir. The Playful, Gentle Gale.

They say she was so beautiful she could turn a heart with naught but a look. That she had her very own cult of worshippers, living only to serve her every whim.

Hard to tell. Her spirit is shrouded in shawls that flutter freely about her form. How much of that was her appearance in life he cannot say. Yon is rather sure she didn’t have claws the length of his forearm either. Probably. Who knows what his family interbred with in her time.

Her presence brushes against his mind and he bows in supplication, raising his bloodied palms so she may take what she will. So he may be forgiven.

 

\---

 

To Timmns credit (or maybe Sar should credit his _shock_ ) he manages to hold his damned tongue until even Drellik has left after gushing about the experience he has now had the chance to be a part of.

Sar appreciates both the thought as well as the respect for the old ways but he’s beat. If he didn’t have to clean up or risk having his liver eaten by a displeased darkside entity called up by the next sorcerer in line for the site, he might be tempted to take a break.

Somminick is as pale as he has ever seen a Mirialan get. That’s… surprisingly close to white actually. Pastel green. Sar will have to remember to tease him about that when he doesn’t look like he’ll keel over any second.

“Your teapot is haunted.” There’s the faintest bit of incredulity under the flatness of that statement. “ _Why is your teapot haunted?_ ”

The Sith is tempted to roll his eyes. “Because it’s fine bone china.”

Timmns seems to digest that for a moment. “Please tell me you’re joking.” He’s not. He really, really isn’t. “… you made me drink from a cup made out of dead people.”

 _Oh, for_ \- “Fuck’s sake! Show some decorum! You can be so glad she thinks you’re funny!”

Impossibly his Jedi seems to lose another shade of color. His eyes flicker to the teapot in Sar’s protective grip. “That thing can hear me?”

Seriously. When did he become the one who has to insist on shlurping manners? “ ’That thing’ is my great-great-grandmother, you barbarian! And she’s dead not deaf!”

“Your family made a _tea service_ of- for the love of the Force, _why_?”

Sar can’t help but snort. “She liked tea. And what were they supposed to do, exactly?” Lady Nir has always been adventurous. You’ve got to give her the run of the place or she’ll get bored. No one wants an ancestral spirit to find themselves in need of entertainment. _No one_. “If we stick her in a tomb she’ll be turning the villagers into her mindless slaves so they’ll help her stage a prison break in under a week.”

Judging by his incoherent sputtering Timmns can’t seem to find a retort to that. Or at least not one he’s willing (or able) to share.

 

 


End file.
